Texas longhorns

Bill Martin once needed a lawn mower. Being in Texas, where things are always bigger, his lawn mowers sport seven-foot blades.

Tall story? Nope, long story. Horns, that is. Longhorns.

And boy, can they mow.

"Some of these big guys in the longhorn industry which have an eight foot horn spread or more, well, you probably need a wide-load permit just to haul 'em down the road," he grins, pushing his glasses back up his nose. I actually was looking for animals to take care of some grass, and I heard that longhorns were smart and easy to take care of, since they were virtually wild cattle for centuries. Well, now we're in the longhorn business!"

Bill and his wife Sandy are all about Texas longhorns. They talk about the need for proper fencing, about broom-stick horns, Reds, Texas twists, swept horns, goal posters, tip-to-tip scores, brindles, spotted-paints, roans, speckled-ups and color-sided longhorns. About horn growth, nutrition, and daily rate gains on beef. Their records are meticulous records but they hardly need to reference the pages.

Sandy walks the pastures, calling animals by name. She moves ambling beasts with her voice, her hand, hardly more motion than the wind-blown fringes on her leather coat. "These longhorns are just plain intelligent," she says. "You can talk to 'em like they were a horse; and most times, they will jump right into a trailer to go for a ride."

"They're a thinking animal." Bill adds. "They think individually, not like a herd animal. They have personalities." Sandy moves among the monstrous beasts, their horns swaying from side to side, with no more concern than if were she were strolling through a pen of chickens.